


Follow Your Fire

by DragonGirl87



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Harry Potter, Crups (Harry Potter), Crups With A Personality, Diagon Alley, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Ex-Auror Harry Potter, Friendzone, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter Is The Best Uncle, Harry Potter Teaches At Hogwarts, Harry Potter Works At Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes, Harry Potter/Charlie Weasley Friendship, M/M, POV Harry Potter, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Past Harry Potter/Original Male Character(s), Post-War, Slow Burn, coffee obsession
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27782167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonGirl87/pseuds/DragonGirl87
Summary: Divorced, no longer an Auror, single, and free. After a failed marriage with Ginny and a relationship that was the talk of Britain, Harry Potter has settled into a very different kind of life. His life consists of drinking way too much coffee, dealing with Walter―a crup with a personality and then some―and working alongside George Weasley at Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes. Sometimes, he teaches DADA classes at Hogwarts. Sometimes, he hikes through the mountains with Charlie Weasley. Sometimes, his shoulder bothers him. All in all, his life is peaceful; a stark contrast to what it once was.What will happen to all that when Harry, unexpectedly and unguarded, bumps into none other than Draco Malfoy? Is he going to turn Harry's life upside down? Or will they nod curtly and go their separate ways?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Original Male Character(s), Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	1. Saturday

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not entirely sure why I've decided to upload this WIP now, but before I lose my nerve, I'll plough ahead anyway. I should be focusing on the one WIP that I still have to finish, but, at the same time, I don't want this to rod away hidden in a folder somewhere among all of my files. I've every intention of finishing it. The ideas are there, it's just a question of time, and I fully intend to split my time between two multi-chapter works. I must be completely and utterly insane. Then again, isn't any writer?
> 
> This was originally supposed to be a fest contribution but after 2020 decided to turn my life upside down, I had no energy to focus on writing something light-hearted. I didn't have much energy to focus on writing full stop. Somehow, I still managed. In an attempt to end 2020 on a better note than it started, I'm publishing something a bit different. We'll see where this story takes me. If you, dearest reader, choose to take a chance on me, rest assured I will not disappoint you and this work will be finished. As always, I'd be delighted to find myself privy of your thoughts on this work. Feel free to wonder what might happen, where this will go. etc. I'm always happy to have input and interact with you!
> 
> Much love,  
> Selly

* * *

* * *

A loud bang, followed by a whoosh, crackle, and then a fizz that dies off in a strange sort of whistle has Harry sitting upright in bed. His back rigid and straight and his right hand is clutched firmly around his eleven-inch-long holly wand with its phoenix feather core. Because apparently, not even the fact that he left his position as the Head of the Auror Department some twenty-two months ago can shake the habit of a lifetime. Being on guard, always alert, quick to react―even as he lies asleep in his bed―well, that’s become second nature now, hasn’t it? His razor-sharp Auror reflexes, executed with the swiftness and accuracy of a naturally-gifted Seeker, are responses to any minute stimulus, and he performs them without conscious thought or the bat of an eye.

Harry doesn’t need to summon his glasses from the nightstand beside his bed to work out that a series of harmless, miniature indoor fireworks have just exploded above his head. But the _why_ remains a mystery in need of solving. Not that Harry is in any rush to get to the bottom of the unexpected disturbance that so very unkindly roused him from his sleep.

It is with furrowed brows that he falls back on top of his richly luxurious and fluffy pillow and sighs. He stares at the colourful Chinese dragon that rather majestically, as though it is a combination of a long line of emperors, flexes its sparkling wings. It flies slow and steady, circling above him with an air of refined grace and Harry is quite content to watch it for a little while longer, even if it’s blurred around the edges because he can’t be bothered to summon his glasses.

A quick flick of his wand―and Harry only uses it to cast the spell instead of doing it wandlessly because he’s holding it and the holly feels so perfectly lovely in his hand, at home and like it belongs―and a mumbled _Tempus_ reveals that it is only five-thirty in the morning. Harry can’t help but grumble about the wretchedness of having been forced awake at such an absurd time. He ends the spell just as swiftly as he’s cast it and squeezes his eyes firmly shut. Mainly, because he knows that if he keeps looking at the time, he’s going to be a miserable grump for the rest of the day ― and there simply isn’t enough coffee in the world to cure him of that sort of mood, at least not once it has got its claws into him.

Harry’s feeble attempt to fall back asleep is rudely interrupted by a very familiar sound, one that makes his ears ring and he presses his lips together in mild annoyance. He instinctively knows that the only way he’s going to get even just another minute of sleep is if he uses magic to put an end of the ridiculous pandemonium Walter is currently creating. And, well, there’s just no way Harry is going to do _that_ , because that would be utterly immoral, not to mention illegal. Besides, ever since he and Ginny finally called that preposterous spoof of a marriage a day and he’s kicked Jasper out the door, Walter has been a faithful companion. It wouldn’t be fair to use such measures, though Harry has to admit―only to himself though―that sometimes, just sometimes, he’s sorely tempted.

“Woof-woof!”

“Must you make such a racket, Walter!”

“Woof-woof!”

“Of course, yes, naturally, how dare I think that maybe, just maybe, you actually care about me, eh?”

Despite his outward vexation, Harry isn’t at all angry, at least not seriously. He grudgingly opens his eyes again, and this time he doesn’t bother with his wand. A wandless non-verbal spell has his glasses flying from his nightstand straight into his outstretched hand. He haphazardly pushes his spectacles onto his nose and blinks, waits for his world to swim into focus. Once it has, he finds himself staring into the warm and friendly chocolate-brown eyes of the pitch-black crup which has just leapt up onto his bed and is now wagging its forked tail in obvious excitement ― _no surprise at all_ , Harry thinks. After all, Walter’s quest to wake him has been a successful one.

Walter snorts happily, bounds forward and nuzzles his hand with its wet snout and to show the crup that he’s just a little cross with him, Harry drags his hand away and reaches for his wand again. As his fingers wrap around the hilt and he tightens his grip, he delights in the strength that oozes from the phoenix feather inside. It tickles the palm of his hand quite nicely. With a smile, Harry swooshes the holly and flicks the switch that turns the lamp on his nightstand on. At once, his bedroom is dipped in a soothing shade of golden hue. With the appearance of the light, the last of the firework dragon disappears with a faint sputter and a low protesting hiss.

Harry turns his attention back to Walter and tells his crup precisely what he thinks of him, namely that Walter is utterly despicable. He reminds him―quite firmly―that it is Saturday, that he doesn’t have to work, that day hasn’t even broken yet and that Rose and Hugo are at Cochach’s Grange, then pauses long enough to fix Walter with a long, stern glare.

“How did you even get out and down into the shop? Never mind ― No need to answer.”

Walter stands on the bed with his ears pricked, and blinks, entirely unfazed over having been read the riot act and Harry can’t really help himself. He breaks into a smile because there’s just _something_ about that persistent Stygian menace that fills Harry’s heart with an extraordinary kind of fondness, the kind some would describe as love. Walter’s pink tongue darts out of his mouth, and he licks his snout. He makes that sound, the one that’s neither a bark nor a whine, and Harry knows―his gut tells him so and that one can be trusted because it has never been wrong, not once―that Walter understands what he really wants to say. Which is that Harry isn’t mad at all and that he is stupidly in love with his incorrigible and roguish pet. It is then that he admits defeat, although not without a woeful sigh, just to make his point, because, perhaps one day, Walter may actually allow him to have a lie-in. Harry is not at all convinced of that, but he does allow himself to dream, not often, but sometimes, and especially before he’s had enough coffee to function properly.

“Oh, alright then, come here, already.”

Walter doesn’t need to be told twice. He bounces up to him, rubs the side of his against the palm of Harry’s outstretched hand and in response Harry affectionately tugs on one of Walter’s flappy ears and thinks that there should be some sort of protective charm to make one less susceptible to crup magic. Walter wines, pads further up the bed and curls up beside him, snuggling right into the small space between Harry’s arm and the left side of his body. Though, how he manages to wedge himself in there is a mystery to Harry, one he is very disinclined to solve.

For a while, Harry looks up at the ceiling and absentmindedly continues to pamper Walter, scratching that spot just behind Walter’s ears. Of course, Walter, because he’s nothing if not wholly insatiable, demands more of the same treatment with a low and consistent mewl. It doesn’t take long for him to grow impatient though and he leaps up again, jumps off the bed and drags his paws over the side of the bed, scratching the wood.

“Woof-woof! Woof-woof!”

Harry, who has by now rolled onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow, looks down at Walter and is entirely unimpressed by his crup’s attempt to coax him out of bed because that’s exactly what Walter is doing, it’s what he always does. Sometimes Harry thinks that Walter’s only purpose in life is to make sure he gets out of bed in the morning. Always at a ridiculous hour, of course. Because for the love of Godric Gryffindor, why should he be allowed to sleep in on the weekend? It’s not like Rose and Hugo permit him to do that on weekdays so, by Walter’s reasoning, it’s only fair that he doesn’t get to do that on the weekend either.

“I’m not getting up.”

Harry hopes that the firm undertone in his voice is enough to convince Walter, but the crup leaps back onto the bed and barks right in his face, repeatedly and with intent. He then jumps down and sits on his hindlegs, tries begging by looking cute, which he always does at some point during their morning debates, and Harry shakes his head.

“Absolutely not, Walter. It’s not even six o’clock, you brute. If you’d at least made me some coffee or nipped down to the bakery across the road to get me some fresh croissants, well, I might be more inclined to let you have your way then, but not like that.”

Walter tries to intimidate him with a deep growl, the sort he usually reserves―almost exclusively―for Muggles or people he really does not like. Harry laughs, because when will this odd creature with its forked tail realise that he really isn’t scary at all? His bark is far more vicious than his bite. Not that Walter has ever tried to bite anyone. Because despite their differences, Harry has still managed to train him well, and Walter is smart enough to know better than to sink his fangs into anything that isn’t either a toy or a juicy bone.

Still, Walter doesn’t give up.

He jumps forward, quick like the wind, and catches the corner of Harry’s duvet between his teeth, and before Harry has the chance to grab onto it―Seeker skills and over twelve years of active Auror duty be damned―Walter has won, and the covers are on the bedroom floor.

Cold and very disgruntled, Harry sits up and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Pest,” he growls between gritted teeth.

Walter is now― _quite proudly_ , Harry thinks―sitting in the centre of his crumpled duvet, which is nothing more but a heap on the smooth wooden flooring that runs throughout Harry’s spacious Diagon Alley flat above Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. Harry is convinced that Walter is smirking, it’s a dirty smirk, entirely mischievous, and for just a split-second, Harry feels the urge to throw a stinging hex in Walter’s general direction. But instead of actually doing so, he merely glares at his crup. Throwing his legs over the edge of the bed, he puts his slippers on and gets up.

“There. You won. Happy now?”

Walter barks once in confirmation though he didn’t have to, one look at his face tells Harry all he needs to know, and not bothering with his bathrobe, Harry shuffles out the door and stomps down the corridor and into the bathroom. It’s tough to stomp when one is wearing nothing more than a pair of soft slippers but Harry still tries his best. For just a moment though, a minute second, he misses his Auror-issued dragonhide boots. They are catching dust somewhere in a dark corner of his wardrobe, he knows that much, and although there are days when he’s tempted to take them out, put them on, and then slip back into his old Auror uniform, he always resits.

 _Those days are over_ , he reminds himself firmly and looks down at Walter who has, as he always does, followed him. He shoots him a dark glower and promises him that he won’t be getting any dog treats at all today, then disappears inside his bathroom and huffily slams the door, _if only to make a point_ , he thinks.

Harry proceeds to take half an eternity getting ready, and without the slightest feeling of guilt, he treats himself to an extra-long and extra-hot shower, then expertly trims his beard down to a scruffy three-day stubble. It gives him a ruggedly handsome sort of look, and he quite likes it. A wandless drying charm, a fresh pair of boxer briefs and a snug-fitting sleeveless cotton undershirt later, he emerges from the bathroom and finds Walter in precisely the same spot where he’s left him, faithfully waiting for him.

Crouching down, Harry picks Walter up and lifts him into his arms, and when Walter attempts to lick his face, he turns his face away and grimaces.

“ _No_ , thank you,” he says quite pointedly.

Walter, realising that he isn’t going to get his way, at once jumps out of his arms and runs down the corridor, his forked tail trailing behind him like a beacon.

Harry laughs and makes a beeline for his bedroom, where he pulls the double doors of his wardrobe open, and after a few moments of indecisiveness, he chooses a pair of washed-out dark blue jeans and pairs it with a comfortable black woollen jumper. He summons some fresh socks from a nearby chest of drawers and sits down on the side of the bed to put them on, then wandlessly levitates his duvet back onto the bed. Walter sits by the door with his head sceptically tilted to the side, and Harry glares at him.

“Could have at least done that,” he tells him.

Walter looks at him with an expression that tells him his crup thinks he’s utterly barmy, and Harry thinks that perhaps Walter isn’t so wrong, but he doesn’t dwell on that particular train of thought and makes his way into his kitchen instead. There, and Harry confirms this with a quick flick of his wand, he discovers that it is now nearly seven o’clock and he sighs.

But it is Saturday, and that means that The Hideout isn’t opening its doors until at least nine o’clock and Harry has absolutely no patience to wait another two hours until he gets his first caffeine fix of the day.

Reminded that this is all Walter’s fault, he glowers at his crup. Walter rubs himself up against his leg in an attempt to win his affections. With mild horror Harry realises, as he always does, that it’s absolutely working because Walter knows how to wrap him around his forked tail, has learnt how to do that since the very week he first came to live with Harry.

Harry resigns himself to the fact that he’s going to have to brew his own coffee today and goes about boiling some water and retrieving the French Press from the cupboard above the sink. With Walter continually running back and forth between his legs and Harry very nearly tripping over his crup’s hindlegs, it takes a shocking amount of time until he can finally enjoy his coffee.

So, by the time he is actually leaning back against the kitchen counter, with one ankle crossed over the other and his favourite red-and-gold Gryffindor mug― _cliché_ , he knows―in hand, he has threatened to hex Walter twice.

The first time, he merely says it to try and mildly intimidate his faithful companion. The promise to put Walter into a Full-Body-Bind for the next hour or so leaves Walter decidedly unimpressed and not at all convinced that Harry has any ability to gain the upper hand.

The second time, Harry actually draws his wand and pointing it at Walter, he threatens to transfigure him into an inanimate object.

 _Perhaps the porcelain figurine of a crup_ , he muses aloud, something to be kept on a shelf and admired from afar.

As usual, though, Walter is entirely indifferent towards any of his threats. Not even the assurance that he won’t be getting any bacon rashers for at least a month puts him off being his usual menacing self and the adorable crup, Harry both loves and loathes with a passion.

Although, if he is honest―and Harry has no qualms about being that―he does really love his crup. But Harry would rather eat raw Flobberworms every day for a month before confessing that to Walter. Somehow, the crup has a habit of being utterly and excruciatingly intolerable whenever anyone praises him for anything. Harry still doesn’t know where Walter has picked up that sort of behaviour, but he isn’t about to endorse it in any way, shape, or form; not now and not ever.

Shifting his attention back to his coffee, Harry closes his eyes, and brings his nose as close as possible to the steaming hot beverage inside his mug, then inhales deeply. The deep earthy and pungent aroma of dry cinnamon, cardamom, raisins and faint notes of tobacco as well as rich chocolate tones fills his nostrils and smiling contently, Harry finally takes his first sip of coffee. He savours it with the gusto of an avid coffee drinker, which he most definitely is. He slowly opens his eyes to find that Walter has decided to make the kitchen table his new home. He’s wagging his forked tail in excitement, and there’s a bright yellow tennis ball in his mouth.

Harry at once chases Walter off the table and casts a wandless cleaning charm over the surface before sitting down to resume enjoying his coffee and the silence of the early morning. The sun has already risen but is presently half-hidden behind a large fluffy cloud.

Still, she manages to send a sneaky ray of comforting warmth through the kitchen window into the room. The sight and feel of it makes Harry feel snug and happy. He rubs his shoulder insistently and massages that sore spot right above his shoulder blade, trying to iron out that persistent kink and the lingering ache that blasted curse from two years ago has left behind.

Walter nips at his trousers’ leg, but Harry, quite resolutely and very successfully―and he’s mighty proud of that feat―ignores him until he’s finished about half of his coffee. It’s only then that he sets his mug down for long enough to wrestle the ball from Walter and toss it out of the door and into the corridor. Walter barks loudly and chases after it. Harry briefly wonders whether that crup is ever going to grow up―he thinks not―then returns to drinking his coffee.

Once he’s finished his first mug and has poured himself a second, he decides that it’s time for breakfast and prepares himself a sandwich with ham, cheese, cucumber, and fresh tomatoes. Somehow, and Harry isn’t entirely sure how, Walter manages to convince him to share a slice of ham and then disappears from the kitchen, leaving Harry to finish his sandwich and second cup of coffee in peace and quiet. Harry doesn’t really want to, but since there’s nobody else who is going to take care of the dishes, he rinses the cutlery, his plate, and his mug, then goes to fetch his leather jacket from the hallway coat rack. After slipping into it, he puts on a pair of comfortable running shoes.

The jacket is a gem he discovered in Sirius’ old closet a couple of years ago, and at first, he’d been hesitant to wear his godfather’s old clothes. But once he’d worked out that it had been charmed with everlasting temperature controlling charms, he’d given in to the temptation.

Harry gives himself a brief once-over in the floor-length hallway mirror and tugging the soft and worn leather of Sirius’ jacket into place, he wonders yet again whether his father ever saw Sirius in that jacket and what he might have thought of it.

 _Probably liked it_ , Harry muses, then resolutely stops himself from going down that particular memory lane and grabs Walter’s leash. The moment that he does, Walter emerges from the living room. He dashes down the corridor so fast that he skids on the wooden flooring beneath his paws and Harry laughs―it’s a deep rumbling belly laugh because will Walter ever learn―and Walter looks positively offended.

Harry doesn’t care.

Instead, he opens the door to his flat, but before he can set a foot over the threshold and into the stairwell, Walter bursts past him, and barking madly and like a crup possessed, he races down the four flights of stairs as fast as his four little legs will carry him. Harry shakes his head with bemusement and closes the door behind him, satisfied when he feels the wards slide into place in tandem with the click of the lock. He follows Walter down the stairs at a much more moderate pace, because what’s the rush anyway.

Walter is waiting for him at the locked front door to Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes. He gives him a judgemental look that says it all―hey, old fart, come on―and Harry objects to that because he’s only a few months shy of thirty-two and that absolutely doesn’t make him an old fart, but he also isn’t about to start another debate with Walter. He’s still sore about having lost this morning’s argument, but he’ll be damned if he lets Walter know that he’s holding a grudge.

Harry casts a glance around the shop floor, an almost unconscious and ingrained move to make sure that everything is safe, then unlocks the door to the joke shop, and they both make their way out onto Diagon Alley. Walter does it at a fast-paced sprint that makes Harry wonder whether he’s dashing to make it to the sales on time. Harry doesn’t bother chasing him―Walter will come when called―and with an expert swish of his wand, Harry locks the door to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, George’s pride and joy.

Since it’s the weekend and not even eight o’clock yet, the cobbled wizarding street is pretty much deserted. Shops open late on Saturdays and not at all on Sundays. The usual opening hours are somewhere between nine and ten, which really just means ten o’clock but this is Britain and putting a definite time stamp on things has never worked, and Harry knows from experience, it isn’t ever going to work. He doesn’t mean that in a bad way, this is just the way that things work in this country. Approximate times are enough, most of the time, and if they aren’t, well, then they aren’t.

The peace and quiet of Diagon Alley suits Harry just fine, and looking around, he smiles softly to himself. He leaves Walter to chase after Nargels, as Luna likes to say, and just generally tire himself out because maybe, just maybe, Harry can, once they return home, convince Walter to allow him to nap on the sofa. With one eye’s attention focused on his crup, Harry begins his stroll and walks into the general direction of Gringotts.

Despite the lack of patrons and shoppers, a few of the street peddlers are already busy setting up their stalls, carefully choosing today’s location, and polishing their signs, or spelling new prices on them. Those that notice him walking by either greet him with a friendly smile or call out to him, but that’s about all the attention Harry gets. Nobody is running up to him, frantic to shake his hand or ask for his advice, and Harry is glad for that.

These days, he has become a regular in London’s Wizarding Quarter, a common sight. Yes, his name still means a lot in the Wizarding World, but people have calmed down. Nobody has forgotten about the war, and Harry knows that his mere presence will always attract a certain level of attention. It’s been nearly fourteen years and these days Britain’s wizards and witches no longer hyperventilate when they see him. They treat him with respect and grant him a decent amount of privacy.

Harry likes to think that people are getting a lot better at concealing their excitement whenever they see him. However, perhaps, he’s also just gotten better at not noticing all the attention around him since it’s always been this way.

He’s grateful when Walter interrupts his train of thought just as he’s about to turn onto Horizont Alley and head towards Carkitt Market. Harry stops for a moment and casts a longing glance at the closed doors of The Hideout, his favourite coffee shop, and the one place he can usually be found when he isn’t helping George to run the joke shop or is busy minding Rose and Hugo. It’s his preferred place to sit and people-watch whilst he consumes an extraordinary amount of coffee and treacle tart. He remembers Ron’s playful dig, teasing him over the fact that he’s single-handedly responsible or The Hideout’s booming business and smiles. Some days, Harry secretly agrees with his best friend, but he has no plans to tell Ron that he’s right.

He continues walking, and once he and Walter reappear beside the joke shop, Harry gives him a choice ― they’re either going to return home or head out into Muggle London. He knows what Walter’s choice is before he’s even finished his sentence because his crup makes a mad dash for The Leaky Cauldron. The opportunity to chase Muggles while Harry searches for more coffee clearly appeals, and Harry doesn’t fault him for that. Thankfully, he manages to catch Walter before he disappears inside the pub and it is with practised ease that he connects the leash to Walter’s silver collar.

Walter most definitely doesn’t appreciate being put on a leash ― he doesn’t even like his collar ― but Harry doesn’t give a hoot and draws his wand to glamour Walter’s conspicuously forked tail.

Ministry regulations stipulated that crups which frequent Muggle London have to have their tails clipped to avoid attracting attention. But as the former Head of the Auror Department and considering that he _is_ Harry Potter, Harry has so far managed to get away with nothing more than a gentle reminder to be vigilant.

He secures the leash and together he and Walter head into Muggle London where Walter immediately begins to bark and growl at every single Muggle that passes them. Most ignore Walter’s overexcited verbal attacks, but some toss Harry a dark glower and, in his mind, he flips them the finger. Don’t they understand that Walter is just having a bit of fun?

It takes Harry about half an hour before he finds a coffee shop that sells good quality coffee, and he immediately heads inside to fuel his ever-prevalent caffeine addiction. Some Auror habits apparently die hard ― not that Harry has any intention of ever giving up on his beloved coffee or limiting how much he drinks of it. The heavenly black stuff, is, after all, his only vice in life and he’ll be damned before he lets anyone take that from him. Even Hermione, who has been on this crazy and exhausting health trip ever since she gave birth to Hugo four years ago―and Harry can’t understand how Ron, with his notorious sweet tooth, copes with it―understands that.

* * *

* * *


	2. Sunday

* * *

* * *

Sunday finds Harry in Romania, enjoying a spot of easy camaraderie with Charlie Weasley as they walk alongside each other. Harry has zero regrets about the extra galleons, he spent to cover the same-day-Portkey return fee, because spending a bit of quality time with Charlie, far away from the madness of the hustle and bustle of London, is absolutely worth it. They hike through one of Romania’s famed virgin forests at the foot of the Transylvanian Alps, an impressive range of mountains the southern part of the country.

Every now and then, when they pass through a small clearing where the trees part just a bit―Harry likes to think it’s because nature wants to dazzle them―they pause to catch a glimpse of the majestic mountains with their snow-covered peaks glimmering in the warm spring sun. Without a single cloud, the bright blue sky makes for a spectacular backdrop.

Today’s hiking trail is only a short apparition away from the dragon reserve, Charlie oversees daily. He’s been the Lead Dragonologist for a few years now, and Harry doesn’t envy him at all. The job keeps Charlie so busy he barely manages to make it home in time for Christmas. He used to work exclusively with dragons―it was all hands-on-wands-out type of stuff―but now he has his own office and piles of paperwork on his desk. Harry knows that Charlie hates writing reports and corresponding with Ministry delegates from all over the globe. It’s a tedious task for anyone who favours the practical approach over a theoretical one, which Charlie definitely does.

Walter, who has come along for the day―because Harry isn’t yet insane enough to leave his crup alone in their Diagon Alley flat―is preoccupied with wrestling with Atlas, Charlie’s fully-grown Husky. They are involved in a heated argument over a large stick and each one of them tugging at one end with neither one willing to be the first one to let go.

Harry doesn’t think that Walter stands even the slightest chance in that particular duel, but as always, his crup lives to prove him wrong. The fact that Atlas could probably kill him with a casual swipe of his front paw doesn’t appear to concern Walter in the slightest. He eventually manages to wrangle the stick from Atlas and makes a mad dash for it while Atlas howls in Charlie’s general direction, venting his frustration.

Charlie merely laughs aloud, and his piercing blue eyes dance with mirth. The golden rays of the warm and pleasant afternoon sun reflect in his ginger hair, giving it a strange kind of glow. Harry finds a bit distracting but not enough to actually be physically attracted to Charlie.

They are good friends, have been for several years. Charlie is, for all intends and purposes, his big brother and they have a solid friendship, one Harry cherishes deeply. Besides, while he isn’t fussy about the gender of his partners, Charlie really isn’t his type at all. He’s also family, in a strange sort of way. Harry doesn’t contemplate it much, but it’s true. Since he and Ginny never had any children, he doesn’t have any blood ties to the Weasley family, but to Harry, they are still family, a second family, one he chose for himself and one that chose him.

“Don’t let him bully you, boy!”

Charlie encourages Atlas to fight back, and the Husky sits on his hindlegs and tilts his head to the side, looking somewhat sceptical. It feels a bit like he’s trying to tell Charlie that he thinks his Master is barking mad and that there’s no way he’s going to go up against a magical beast, not even if said beast is just a little larger than the size of his head and tail combined.

Charlie laughs some more, and the sound of his deep voice rings through the quiet of the forest.

Nearby, a few birds chirp with excitement and Harry hears some faint rustling in the undergrowth.

“Grow a pair,” Charlie says firmly.

Atlas most definitely doesn’t appreciate that because he barks at Charlie and then turns his back on him and prances off, head held high and bushy tail trailing behind him ― he’s such a character, much like Walter, really.

Harry is amused by the whole exchange between Charlie and his dog; the two of them are a proper pair, and they remind him a lot of what he and Walter are like when they are back home in Harry’s Diagon Alley flat, right above Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes. He isn’t going to tell Charlie that, though. Mainly, because his honorary older brother already thinks he’s completely barmy. Harry doesn’t think he needs to give Charlie even more of a reason to wonder whether he’s sane or whether the war left him with more scars than he cares to admit to himself.

It doesn’t really matter that Charlie hasn’t actually said anything of the sort. Harry is still convinced that he and all the other members of the Weasley family―Ron, despite being his best mate, included― are secretly judging him for leaving the Aurors and his up-and-coming career at the DMLE. He doesn’t think that they understand why he chooses to work in a joke shop and helps to raise two children that don’t even belong to him.

 _Rein in that paranoia, Potter_ , he reminds himself.

He and Charlie continue to talk about dragons. Today, the main topic is the curious fact that the hatching of a single Antipodean Opaleye has rendered an entire team of highly-trained Dragonologists utterly incapable of performing their assigned duties on time.

Apparently, or so Charlie says, the presence of a single female dragon whelp is enough to turn everyone’s world upside down, and most of the staff onsite are either busy fawning over Tyra or fighting over who gets to babysit her. Earlier this morning and shortly before Harry’s arrival, Charlie’s even had to break up a duel between two of his Senior Dragonologists who could not come to an agreement about who was going to sit with Tyra first. Harry secretly thinks that these dragon-obsessed fools are worse than a bunch of Hogwarts first years, but he knows better than to mention that to Charlie. He does, however, think that Charlie probably knows that. It takes a select sort of breed of wizard or witch to become a Dragonologist.

“By the way, I’ve someone I’d like to introduce to you, Harry.”

Charlie’s sudden change of topic throws Harry a bit, and it takes him a moment to make sense of the words ― or rather, decipher the message hidden inside that perfectly innocent statement.

He turns his head and furrows his brows at Charlie, who has the cheek to wink at him.

“I’m done dating, Charlie, you know that,” he says quite firmly and with a lot of conviction. It’s true. He’s really had enough of putting himself out there and opening up to someone new. Things have gone wrong one too many times, and if Harry is honest―which he usually isn’t, at least not when it comes to matters of the heart―he’s still a bit scarred from the ordeal Jasper put him through.

Charlie rolls his cobalt blue eyes at him, and Harry feels like he’s being mocked for choosing to remain single after a string of failed relationships. A small part of him tries to tell him that he’s still young and that he should actively try to find a partner, but he shuts that thought down before it has the chance to grow roots.

Most of his suitors usually just want to be seen with him because of his influence and status within the wizarding world ― Harry knows that it’s a bit harsh to accuse everyone of having an agenda. But he also isn’t inclined to change his mind. People do have motives, that’s life. Somehow, dating _The Saviour_ is still a big deal, and Harry is thoroughly tired of getting involved in yet another relationship only to end up seeing his private affairs plastered all over the tabloid pages of _Witch Weekly_.

Of course, he’s not petty enough to have stopped believing that there might be someone special out there for him, but he just really can’t be bothered to make an effort to look for the person that’s just right for him. Charlie absolutely knows that, but that still doesn’t stop him from trying to set Harry up. Because he means well, Harry usually humours him. He goes on a date with whoever Charlie introduces him to, then makes it very clear that he’s just looking for a friend and isn’t interested in a romantic relationship.

Occasionally, though, he does indulge in a bit of casual sex, a friends-with-benefits sort of arrangement, but he always makes sure to keep his emotions out of that. Granted, that usually means the sex subpar―at least in Harry’s opinion―but he’s a bloke, and he has needs and desires and getting some is by far better than not getting any at all.

“Hear me out first?”

Charlie insists, and Harry knows better than to turn him down and so he shrugs and motions for Charlie to proceed, which seems to make him very happy, indeed. Harry doesn’t quite understand what sort of pleasure Charlie gets out of setting him up with various wizards and witches, but he thinks, that perhaps, this is Charlie’s way of dealing with the stress of his own job and that makes Harry even more unwilling to tell him to just give it a rest. He supposes that his _Saviour Complex_ ―as Ron calls it―has something to do with his reluctance to stand up to Charlie, but Harry’s just not bothered enough to put an end to Charlie’s meddling.

“Florin is a bit younger than you, Harry, he’s just turned twenty-nine, but he’s a pretty sensible bloke. He studied Magizoology in Germany and attended Beauxbatons, so you’ll find he speaks fluent French on top of fluent German and English. He’s a handsome devil, I guarantee you that, and he’s most definitely not interested in the fact that you’re Harry Potter.”

Harry laughs.

“That’s what they all say, but when the press comes knocking and offers them their fifteen minutes of fame in exchange for an exclusive interview, well, that’s when they usually change their minds.”

Charlie gives him a long hard look. He pierces him with those sparkling bluer-than-blue eyes, and Harry shudders a bit. Charlie really doesn’t need to say those words, deep down he knows he’s overly judgemental, but after that horrid fiasco with Jasper, he can’t really help himself.

More often than not, the words just slip out of him, and he pushes people away before actually giving them a fair chance. He knows that Charlie would never set him up with someone who’s after his fame or wants to harm him, but dating is exhausting and making a serious effort to get to know a person is draining. Harry isn’t in the mood to put his heart into it. He thinks that, perhaps, Charlie senses his sombre mood because before he knows it, he finds himself almost crushed when Charlie throws an arm around his shoulders and gives him a brotherly squeeze.

Harry’s curse-impaired shoulder protests and he winces, but he doesn’t have the heart to pull out of Charlie’s embrace and so he just grinds his teeth together and bears it. Charlie pats him on the back and reassures him that Florin is a decent guy and Harry finds himself agreeing to stay for dinner and meet his blind date, then gingerly rubs his shoulder and casts a wandless numbing spell to stop the pain.

* * *

* * *


	3. Monday

* * *

* * *

Early on Monday morning, and still rather enervated from the night before, Harry resolutely bans Walter from the kitchen and tells him that he’s to stay on his bed in the living room. The large bone he offers Walter certainly seems to convince his crup to keep out of his hair for a while.

This morning, Harry feels entirely overtaxed with keeping an eye on Rose and listening to both Hugo and Ron prattling into his ears about two entirely different subjects.

Rose is, despite turning six next month, making a royal mess of her cereals and milk and Harry draws his wand just in case the ceramic bowl, she’s using, ends up on the floor. He really doesn’t need his wand for a simple levitation charm. It helps him focus, especially when Hugo, who has climbed up onto his knee after finishing his porridge, is trying to read to him from one of his favourite children’s books.

Problem is, however, that Hugo is only four and does most of his reading by pointing at the various drawings in his book and making up his own story. For the most part, it’s entertaining, but right now, Harry is struggling to handle it. Still, he tries his very best to listen, but it’s damn near impossible to accomplish when Ron is sitting across from him and is trying to discuss a somewhat confounding case with him. It’s an adult conversation they shouldn’t be having around the kids, and Harry has told his best mate as much, but so far, that hasn’t deterred Ron in the slightest.

 _For Merlin’s sake_ , Harry thinks and decides that he most definitely needs more coffee to cope with how this day is already not going well at all.

“It isn’t a kidnapping,” he says.

His rather brusque comment stumps Ron momentarily, and he falls quiet and looks over his case notes again. A part of Harry wants to take the opportunity to remind his best friend that he’s left the force. He’s no longer the Head of the Auror Department, and that as a civilian he shouldn’t be privy to confidential case notes, crime scene photos and investigation reports. But he just isn’t that much of a dick. Besides, the cases Ron shows him are always interesting. They tend to have an unexpected twist to them that usually piques Harry’s interest, although he doesn’t plan to admit that to anyone anytime soon.

Still, Ron’s always been there for him. During the war, he supported him through thick and thin, and it’s because of their close-knitted friendship that Harry likes to occasionally repay the favour. Because, really, the fact that Kingsley Shacklebolt is stubbornly refusing to appoint a new and permanent Head of Department is hardly Ron’s fault.

Somehow, Harry can’t help but wonder whether he failed to make himself absolutely clear when he told Kingsley―in no uncertain terms―that he’d decided to leave the Aurors and then handed in his written―and non-negotiable―resignation. However, for some inexplicable reason, Kingsley seems to operate under the conviction that Harry is simply on extended leave and will resume his duties any day now. Harry wants to laugh at the absurdity of that idea. However, it is precisely then that Ron―who has paled considerably and to the degree that he looks almost sick―has found his voice again and resumes talking about the case, which makes Harry abandon all of his musings.

“But,” he says a bit too high-pitched and hastily clears his throat, then swallows hard, “that means there’s the intent, and that makes it _M-U-R-D-E-R_ even if we don’t have a _B-O-D-Y_ yet.”

Ron spells the words, slowly and with long breaks in-between each letter because even he isn’t stupid enough to talk about a gruesome murder in front of his own children. Besides, Hermione would have his head if she ever found out, though Harry doesn’t think that it makes much of a difference because Rose, much like her mother, is wise beyond her years and Harry is quite sure that she’s listening at least a little bit. As for Hugo, well, Harry isn’t worried about him at all, because when Hugo is reading from his books and animatedly sharing his stories, he forgets about the rest of the world.

Harry nods and Ron goes a little paler ― it’s been a while since the DMLE got caught up in a murder investigation of that magnitude. He runs his fingers through his wild ginger hair, and Harry reaches for the French Press and pours him more coffee because there’s really not much else he can do at this point in time. Ron seems rather grateful for the small, comforting gesture and he takes several sips of the steaming hot beverage, then, after his cheeks regain some colour, Harry leans forward and points at one of the photos in Ron’s case file.

“That tipped me off,” he says.

Ron looks back and forth between him and the picture and opens his mouth. Harry knows exactly what his best friend wants to say. Ron wants to plead with him to return to the DMLE. He wants him to take his old job back and work his magic, which is solving high-profile cases in a way nobody else can. Because, for some reason, whenever Harry goes to inspect a crime scene, he sees things differently. He sees things in a way that the other Aurors simply can’t comprehend. But Ron doesn’t say those words, even though they most definitely are right there on the very tip of his tongue. No, he remains silent and instead of trying to badger him―yet again―Ron slowly rises to his feet and takes a deep breath, then kisses both his children.

“I suppose I better head back and put together a task force.”

Harry nods.

“You do that, and keep me in the loop.”

It’s what he always says when Ron consults him on a case, because it’s the only decent response there is, and despite everything, Harry does care about Ron keeping his sanity, which, at times, seems to hang by a thread. Ron’s been the Deputy Department Head ever since Harry accepted the promotion to Department Head a couple months before he’d turned twenty-six. And now―with Harry ‘ _on leave’_ as Kingsley likes to put it―Ron has had to step up and run the place on top of trying to do his own job, raise a family, and find a bit of quality time to spend with his wife.

To be honest, Harry doesn’t really know how Ron does it all, and he absolutely admires him for his patience. That’s precisely why he after his best friend has left to return to the Ministry, doesn’t make his way downstairs to help George run the shop but remains upstairs in his flat. He does, however, dispatch a quick note to let George know that he’s got a couple of things to take care of and that the kids need looking after. George responds with a short ‘ _Okay_ ’, and that is that.

After putting Hugo and Rose in front of the television―which, and Harry is well aware of that, isn’t the best form of parenting ―he spends an hour or so perusing a few of his old case notes until he makes a jarring discovery. It’s the kind of uncovering that has his blood running cold, and as a result, it takes Harry a good five minutes and several sips of strong black coffee before he regains his composure. Considering everything he’s gone through during the war, that’s a shocking amount of time.

Rattled, he dispatches an owl immediately, then decides that staying inside is going to drive him utterly spare and therefore drags both Hugo and Rose outside with him for a stroll up and down Diagon Alley. He promises them ice-cream. It has them running to put their shoes and jackets on; a task which they complete in record time. Walter very grudgingly abandons his bone and trots along because for some inexplicable reason that menace of a crup just loves ice-cream, especially strawberry-flavoured scoops in a fresh waffle cone.

Once outside, Harry basks in the warming rays of the early April sun and breathes deeply.

For a moment, he forgets all about the case and the connection he’s just made. Part of him hopes that he’s mistaken about his hunch, but something tells him that that isn’t going to be the case. He hastily reminds himself that he isn’t involved and that he isn’t going to get involved. Ron can handle it on his own. He is more than capable and he as an entire department of highly-trained and highly-skilled Aurors at his command.

Hugo and Rose nap a bit in the early afternoon and Harry offers to do the books for George, which he regrets five minutes later and, in an attempt, to deal with his annoyance, he promptly dispatches another owl. This one he sends to The Hideout to order his favourite Jamaican coffee. His coffee order arrives less than half an hour later, protected by a Stasis Charm to keep his coffee nice and hot and, of course, a customised Non-Spillage Charm to protect the contents of his cup.

Coffee in hand, Harry sits on his tattered sofa and thinks about nothing at all until a very sleepy-looking Rose comes walking in and curls up in his lap. Hugo joins them some twenty minutes later, and together they listen to the wireless, dance a bit, then play board games for the rest of the afternoon. Around five-thirty, Harry sends the children downstairs to help Uncle George clean up while he cooks them dinner.

* * *

* * *


	4. Tuesday

* * *

* * *

On Tuesday, Harry, dressed in a pair of navy-blue jeans and a crisp white button-up shirt, casually perches himself on the edge of the teacher’s desk in the Defence Against The Dark Arts classroom. He crosses his arms over his chest and proudly observes a class of fifth-year students dismantle a set of wards he’s cast upon small wooden boxes ― one for each student.

He has told them that they can expect to find a jinxed object inside and has warned them to proceed with caution.

These days, though, Harry considers himself to be a bit of a sly bastard, so to try and distract his students, he’s chosen a shiny and very real-looking galleon, which he’s placed inside each box. In reality, the galleon is nothing but a plain pebble. Thousands of them line the Back Lake’s shore.

Before the start of the class, Harry collected a bunch of them and transfigured them to look like ordinary wizarding money. On top of that, he cast a jinx on each of the fake coins. It’s a very mild stinging hex. Harry is absolutely confident that the curse won’t do much more than teach those students, who decide to ignore his warnings and immediately reach inside the box, a little lesson.

Most of his students manage to successfully remove all the wards, and Harry watches with a fondness―which he reserves for those rare occasions where he spends a day at Hogwarts to lecture―as more and more boxes spring open. Two students eagerly reach inside their boxes and immediately pay the price for their thoughtless actions, but the remainder of his class tries their best to remove the jinx before they touch the transfigured pebble inside.

When the bell announces the end of the class, nobody wants to leave, and they beg and plead until they manage to butter Harry up and he demonstrates a few advanced spells. They watch with bated breath, ask a few questions, and afterwards, Harry shoos them out of the classroom and quite firmly tells them to go and eat lunch. They protest, of course, but this time, Harry remains resolute, and the students grudgingly begin to file out of the classroom.

Harry himself begins to gather up his own things, makes sure to lock the door to the classroom behind him, and then takes a detour through the castle’s familiar corridors. He stops here and there to exchange a few pleasantries with a some of the paintings, then makes his way to the Great Hall and joins Minerva at the staff table. They amicably chat over lunch, and she makes him an offer, subtly invites him to join the staff and take up a permanent teaching position. Her slyness makes Harry smile into his goblet.

Minerva’s been trying to recruit him for about five years, but he just can’t see himself teaching full-time, and he’s told her as much. Then again, Minerva McGonagall isn’t the kind of woman who gives up easily, though, she never badgers him about it, that isn’t her style. She mostly uses pointed looks and off-handed little remarks to get her message across, and she’s so crafty about it that sometimes, just sometimes, Harry can’t help but wonder whether Hogwarts’ current Headmistress is actually a closeted Slytherin.

He doesn’t share his suspicions with her, though. Instead, he whole-heartedly agrees with her about a whole plethora of things. By the time dessert is served―treacle tart, because, of course, Minerva would speak to the kitchen elves and arrange for them to prepare his favourite sweet treat―Harry is half-considering relocating to Scotland for a year. While he thinks Walter would enjoy the place, he remembers Rose and Hugo and how heartbroken they would be without their favourite uncle to spoil them rotten. There’s also absolutely no way he would do that to either Ron or Hermione. One of them would be forced to give up their job to look after the children, and Harry doesn’t think it’s a sacrifice either one of them has to make. He enjoys looking after Hugo and Rose during the week. They are a handful, and most nights he’s dead on his feet, but he just doesn’t feel ready to give up his co-parenting role.

After lunch, and a brief catchup with several of the other staff members, Harry makes his way to the inner courtyard to find Teddy, who has a free period and is eager to spend a bit of time with him. They sit in the sun, backs propped up against the cool stones of a low wall, and chat about Teddy’s studies.

Teddy animatedly updates Harry on the latest Hogwarts gossip. As he talks, his hair changes colour several times. Harry thinks it reflects his mood, and he rather likes that about his godson; it’s a unique trait, and Harry is very fond of it. Teddy is still learning to control his Metamorphmagus magic, but Harry’s pleased to hear that nobody teases him about it and that he’s happy here at Hogwarts. That’s all that matters to him.

Towards the end of their little catchup, Teddy does get a bit tearful though, and so Harry hugs him, and they sit in silence for a bit, then practise some of the charms and spells on Teddy’s curriculum.

Even though Harry mildly opposes the special treatment, Hagrid lets Teddy skip his afternoon Care of Magical Creatures class. Practically bouncing off the walls about getting to spent more time with his favourite godfather―Harry laughs and reminds Teddy that he’s only got the one―Teddy skips along to join Harry for his Advanced Duelling class for both sixth and seventh-year students.

With that many students, Harry is forced to hold his lecture outside and he takes his students down to the Quidditch pitch where he teaches them two new spells, an offensive and a defensive one, then has them practise in pairs. Teddy refuses to stand by and watch the others and boldly challenges a seventh year Ravenclaw student, who laughs but agrees to practise with him.

Harry stands by and watches proudly―and bemused―as his godson proceeds to teach the seventh year a proper lesson, because, well, when you’re Harry Potter’s godson and spent most of your youth running around the DMLE, you learn a thing or two about duelling.

A few students require a bit more help with their spell work and wand movements, and Harry walks around and provides a bit of assistance here and gives a bit of advice there. When it’s finally time for everyone to return to their respective Common Rooms, more than half of the students are reluctant to walk away, but this time, Harry remains strict and shoos them away.

He doesn’t threaten to dock house points, mainly because he doesn’t have the power to do so. But he does, quite deliberately, wonder whether his students might not benefit from a more theoretical approach to Defence Against the Dark Arts, in the form of a dull written exam. That does it, and everyone finally scatters, leaving him and Teddy alone.

Harry walks Teddy back up to the castle and although he knows Minerva won’t mind it if he stays for dinner, or even the night, Harry grudgingly gives Teddy one last big hug, then turns and makes his way down to Hogsmeade. He takes a bit of time to check in on the much smaller Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes branch in the village, then apparates back home to London―which takes several jumps and leaves him feeling mildly queasy and exhausted―to help George close up for the night.

Once that’s done, he’s tired, his shoulder is aching a lot more than usual, and all he really wants is to grab a hot shower and then fall into bed to sleep until morning. However, Walter somehow manages to talk him into taking him out for a short walk. He does it by tilting his head to the side, wagging his forked crup tail, and looking cuter than cute. Harry doesn’t have the energy―or the heart―to turn Walter down and so he grabs the leash, and together they head out into Muggle London for an hour-long walk.

When they return, Harry decides that he can’t be bothered to cook himself dinner, so he grabs a tasty bite in The Leaky Cauldron, shares half of his steak with Walter, then returns home to have that shower, a tumbler of Ogden’s Old, and a very early night.

* * *

* * *


	5. Wednesday

* * *

* * *

On Wednesday morning, Harry gets up just before seven, showers and dresses in a pair of light-blue jeans and a comfortable black jumper. Feeling somewhat refreshed and more or less ready to tackle the day, or so he hopes, he takes Walter for a quick walk around the quarter.

Upon returning to the flat, they have a short argument about what time breakfast is served and when Harry suggests that the decent thing would be if Walter waited for Hugo and Rose to arrive. Walter isn’t exactly pleased about Harry’s proposition and barks loudly in protest. Harrys decides to ignore him and brews himself a large pot of coffee instead. While the water is boiling, he also prepares breakfast for the kids and makes sure to lay the table.

By twenty-five past eight, Harry―second coffee mug in hand―patiently waits by the living room fireplace. He turns the wireless on, and it’s quietly playing some jazzy tunes in the background. With a smile, Harry taps his foot along to the familiar rhythm while Walter happily wags his forked tail. By eight-thirty sharp, green flames appear and Walter’s excitement sparks. He barks loudly and runs around the room.

A moment later, Hermione―as always, she’s immaculately dressed and ready for work―steps out of the fireplace. She’s holding Rose’s hand and carrying little Hugo in her arms.

Harry casually flicks his hand and one wandless charm later; Hermione’s business suit is impeccable, and the kids no longer have specs of dust in their ginger hair. Rose impatiently wriggles her hand out of her mother’s loose grasp and because Harry knows what she wants―it’s the same every morning―he quickly sets his coffee cup down on top of a coaster on the mantlepiece. Once he’s no longer holding a steaming hot beverage in his hand, he bends down and effortlessly lifts Rose off the ground. She gives him a sloppy kiss and Harry gives her a big hug.

Hugo demands to be put down, and as soon as he’s standing on his own two feet, he makes it his mission to chase after Walter and envelop him in a fierce embrace. For a change, Walter doesn’t run off but allows himself to be hugged. Harry watches them for a moment―he’s a little amazed that Walter is happy to allow Hugo to shower him with this much love this early in the morning―but is soon distracted when Rose demands his attention.

“Uncle Harry, what’s for breakfast? I’m so hungry!”

Amused, Harry huffs out a chuckle and ruffles her soft shoulder-length ginger hair. It curls around her small, freckled face and for a split-second, her appearance stuns Harry. She’s got Ron’s piercing blue eyes and Hermione’s beautiful smile. Right this moment, she’s frowning, and even that reminds him of his best friend, one of the smartest witches he’s ever known, and it warms his heart that his closest friends allow him to be part of their family, don’t mind him helping to raise their children. He feels blessed and loved and very, very happy.

“In a minute, darling,” he says, conscious of the fact that Rose really doesn’t like it when he disappears into his own world.

Rose pouts―she clearly disapproves of his answer―but doesn’t ask again, and Harry silently commends her for her patience, something he firmly believes she learnt from her mother.

“Will you be alright?” Hermione asks, drawing his attention.

Harry rolls his eyes at her―mostly because she always asks him that, as if he’s never minded the kids before―and when she realises it, she chuckles, then shrugs.

“Force of habit,” she says with an apologetic smile.

Harry grins.

He loves the fact that she cares so much. She always been this way and always will be this way. He’s told her plenty of times that she needn’t worry, that he’s thrilled to take care of the kids while Hermione and Ron go to work. He also knows that his friend will never stop worrying about him and he’s perfectly alright with that, because, really, it’s nice to have someone who cares that deeply.

“Shoo, off to work, you. I’ve got this.”

Hermione nods.

“Are you dropping them off tonight?”

Harry shakes his head.

“Nah, I’ll keep them till Friday. You and Ron deserve a night off. Or perhaps even two.”

Hermione smiles.

“I’ll miss them,” she says.

Harry lets his lopsided grin turn into a sly smirk.

“Well, you’re welcome to pick them up any time you like. Or you and Ron come by, and we’ll do a game night.”

“I’m hungry!” Rose protests, making it perfectly clear that she’s absolutely not interested in waiting until the grownups have finished their conversation. Apparently, and despite her brainy disposition, Rose only has a minimal amount of patience, and Harry doesn’t fault her for it.

He still gives her a pointed a look, though.

“In a minute, darling. Be a good girl now, and go wash your hands. Take your brother with you. Warm water and soap, don’t forget that.”

Rose nods, and after Harry sets her down, she goes to find her brother, who is rolling about the sofa with Walter, and together they leave the living room. For a moment, Walter looks tempted to join them but, in the end, he just curls up on the sofa, rests his snout on top of his front paws, and takes a power nap.

Harry reaches for his coffee mug, and as he takes a few small sips, Hermione steps forward and places her hand on his forearm. She squeezes it gently, and Harry arches an eyebrow at her. He doesn’t need to actually ask the question; they’ve known each other long enough to have mastered the art of silent communication.

“I mean it, Harry, if they’re giving you a headache, you’re welcome to drop them off tonight.”

Harry smiles over the rim of his coffee mug, then lowers it, leans forward and presses a kiss to Hermione’s cheek. He lingers just long enough to quietly reassure her that he’s happy to keep the kids overnight, then trails off, purposefully and suggestively leaving the sentence unfinished.

Hermione flushes a little but a moment later a small appreciative smile dances around the corners of her lipstick-covered lips, and with a mouthed ‘ _thanks_ ’, she turns, grabs a handful of Floo Powder and disappears in a flash of green flames.

For a moment, Harry stares after her, then he reminds himself that he’s got two rowdy children and a wilful crup to feed, and forces himself to get into gear. Turning around, he exits the living room. He heads towards the spacious bathroom at the end of the corridor to make sure that Rose and Hugo aren’t in the process of flooding the place, something that they’ve managed once before, and Harry doesn’t have fond memories of the three hours it took him to clean up the damage.

Walter wakes from his slumber, lazily stretches, then jumps off the sofa, and follows him, dutifully trotting alongside him. It feels like they’re a team, and Harry can’t help but chuckle under his breath. It’s true. He and Walter really are a team. Despite all their bickering and all their debates, they have each other’s back, and even though Walter doesn’t speak his language, Harry instinctively knows that his crup would protect him with his life. The knowledge of that fills him with the kind of reassuring warmth that makes his heartbeat just a little faster.

At the bathroom door, Harry discovers that, miraculously, the kids aren’t up to no good at all. They are obediently washing their hands, and leaning against the bathroom doorframe, Harry sips his coffee and watches them with a wistful smile. It’s moments like this when he can’t help but wonder if he’s ever going to have his own children. It’s something he still really wants, but he doesn’t want to do it alone. He wants someone to do it with, someone to stand beside him, through thick and thin.

Walter seemingly senses his budding melancholy because Harry can feel him press his snout into the back of his knee, gently nudging him out of his own head and back into the present. The gesture distracts Harry from allowing his mood to turn sombre, and he temporarily pushes any and all musings about his own future and his desire to be a father to the back of his mind.

Once Rose and Hugo have rinsed all the soap off their hands, Harry reminds them to use a towel to dry their hands, then idly wonders whether anyone is hungry and would like to join him in the kitchen for a scrumptious breakfast for champions.

Rose and Hugo avidly proclaim that they are indeed starving and Walter barks with great enthusiasm. The whole ruckus makes Harry’s ears ring, and to put an end to all that noise, even if it makes him smile, he leads his small army into the kitchen and serves them hot porridge with honey, milk chocolate sprinkles, and fresh fruits.

When the kids are happily munching away on their breakfast, Harry refills his coffee mug, takes a few sips, then temporarily abandons in on top of a coaster on the kitchen table. He picks up Walter’s empty food bowl, cleans and dries it, then fills it nearly to the brim with Walter’s favourite food. Strangely enough, Walter, despite being a magical creature, has a thing for ordinary Muggle dog food, specifically a rather expensive all-natural brand from across the pond, something that Harry finds endlessly amusing. Occasionally, he even affectionately teases Walter about his preferences, but naturally, this always ends with Walter storming off in a huff and sulking in Harry’s bedroom. Then again, Harry knows that his crup isn’t really upset with him, it’s just Walter’s way of making a statement.

With everybody’s mouths occupied, Harry makes himself a sandwich and sits down at the kitchen table to eat it and drink his coffee.

Breakfast is relatively uneventful, and after Rose and Hugo finish their bowls of porridge, they each drink a glass of freshly-pressed orange juice, then storm off to turn their room upside down.

Within half an hour toys are strewn all over the place, and while Walter happily joins the madness and races around with the kids, Harry nearly stumbles over a charmed wizarding doll, then stubs his toe on a toy broom. He curses under his breath, finishes the rest of his coffee to numb the pain, then cleans up the kitchen. He uses magic to sweep the floor but washes all the dishes by hand and leaves them on the dish rack by the sink to dry.

For a while, he even attempts to pick up a couple of the toys, Rose and Hugo have dragged out of their room, but when Walter carries them all back out into the corridor, Harry gives up entirely. He flops down on the sofa in the living room and remains there with his socked feet, crossed at the ankles, resting on top of the coffee table. The kids dash in and out of the room and Harry does his best to keep an eye on them but knows that with Walter around, he can relax.

Walter is like a protective charm. He’s as mad as a hatter, but despite that, the little crup would never let anything happen to the kids, and that’s precisely why Harry isn’t at all worried.

Shortly before ten, Harry forces himself to get into gear and makes it very clear to Rose, Hugo and Walter that Uncle Harry has got to head downstairs to help Uncle George run the shop.

Some days the kids and Walter aren’t at all enthusiastic about the fact that he’s got to be a grownup for a while. Today, however, everyone’s on board, and within five minutes, the four of them are on their way to join George on the shop floor. There’s a protected play area in the back, and after energetically greeting their uncle with hugs, Rose and Hugo take Walter there. Harry has a quick chat with George, then busies himself with restocking a few shelves and serving customers. This includes showing them around the shop, advising them on a purchase or two, taking their money, and wrapping whatever item they bought up and putting it in a bag.

George helps, but at some point, he disappears into the back room to work on a few new inventions and Harry juggles keeping the shop floor in order and processing a few owl orders with occasionally checking in on the kids and Walter. He reminds all three of them to drink enough water and receives a reproachful look from Walter for that comment.

“Yes, I know, you aren’t a puppy anymore,” he says with a laugh.

Walter growls at him, but when Hugo wraps his arms around Walter’s neck and hugs him, he’s distracted. Harry quietly slips away and continues to work until about shortly after one o’clock when Angelina, George’s wife, stops by with a cooked lunch and a meaty snack for Walter.

As if on cue, George emerges from his workroom and the six of them settle by the till to eat.

Every now and then, the one or the other customer interrupts them, but they don’t mind, and after lunch, Angelina takes the children upstairs for a short nap. They reluctantly follow her, though only after she promises to take them to a nearby children’s playground in the afternoon.

Harry cleans up the leftovers, and Walter heads out onto Diagon Alley for a stroll. All in all, it’s just another ordinary day here at Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes. Before George disappears back into his workroom, Harry makes a few wild guesses about his latest inventions, but George remains tight-lipped and refuses to give anything away.

Harry didn’t expect him to reveal anything but grumbles anyway.

“Come on, not even for your business partner?” he asks.

George laughs, and his eyes sparkle with mischief.

“Not even for Harry Potter,” he says, “but I promise you that you’ll be the first to find out as soon as I’ve worked out all the kinks.”

Harry rolls his eyes.

“I’m not your guinea pig, you know.”

George winks at him and pats him on the back.

“You knew what you signed up for when you took the job, my friend,” he says ominously.

Harry glares at him but doesn’t respond to that. He’s used to George’s humour, and after the trauma, George suffered during the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry’s heart dances with joy every time he sees George laugh and joke. Time has healed the worst wounds, but Harry knows that now that Roxanne has joined her older brother at Hogwarts, George and Angelina both find it hard to adjust to the quietness at home ― they aren’t yet used to it.

Harry can tell that they both crave the madness that comes with having two children run havoc around the house. He suspects that even though Angelina is George’s rock, and even though she makes a point not to allow him to get lost in his own head, with both their children now attending Hogwarts, George has a bit too much time to think…and remember.

With the post-lunch tiredness slowly seeping into his bones, Harry yawns and quickly dispatches an owl to The Hideout to order a strong black coffee for himself and a Caffe Latte for George. His order arrives within half an hour, and he uses it as an excuse to drag George out of his workroom so they can drink their coffees together.

Around three o’clock, when Angelina leaves with two very refreshed-looking ginger-haired children in tow, business picks up again. Harry finds himself powering through until nearly seven pm, which is when Rose and Hugo return from the playground and an impromptu shopping trip and demand to be fed.

He leaves the books to George and his wife and heads upstairs to rustle up something nutritious for the kids.

Afterwards, he dutifully bathes them and then they all, including Walter, settle in front of the television and watch a children’s movie.

By nine o’clock Rose and Hugo are both fast asleep, and Harry carries them to bed, tucks them in and presses a tender kiss to their foreheads, then returns to the living room to turn the zap through a few TV channels. He doesn’t find anything that captivates him and quickly losing interest in the visual entertainment, he chats with Walter, who lifts his head off his thigh and listens attentively, occasionally barking quietly in agreement or snorting to express his disapproval.

* * *

* * *


	6. Thursday

* * *

* * *

Thursday morning starts earlier than usual. The kids are up and out of bed before seven and Harry can hear them run, jump, laugh, and shout. He doesn’t need to get up and look in on them to know that they’ve probably managed to turn their bedroom upside down and Harry idly wonders why he keeps buying them new toys. They most definitely have more than enough to play with, but he can never quite resist the temptation to spoil them. Ron has long since stopped giving out to him for his inability to remain firm and say no to either Rose or Hugo, and even Hermione doesn’t do much more than roll her eyes.

Not quite ready to get out of bed and brave a new day, Harry rolls onto his front and buries his face in his pillow. It does nothing to muffle the kids’ excitement, but he tunes it out and dozes, drifting in and out of a light slumber, for about ten minutes or so. That’s when his grace period is up and the Rose and Hugo storm into his bedroom, jump up onto the bed and shake him awake. He grudgingly rolls onto his side, grabs Rose, and without the slightest bit of warning, he tickles her mercilessly. She squirms and squeals and begs him to stop while Hugo laughs loudly. Walter appears in his bedroom doorway, looking thoroughly dishevelled and somewhat disgruntled. He sits down on his hindlegs, and Harry can’t help himself; Walter’s reproachful look makes him laugh.

Somehow, Walter senses that he’s the reason for Harry’s amusement, and annoyed, he growls quietly. Walter’s threat only makes Harry laugh harder, and he wraps his arms around Rose and Hugo, pulls them into his arms and gives them the biggest hug. They each also get a kiss. Harry offers to provide Walter with a hug too, even invites him up onto the bed, but his crup stalks off in a huff. Although amused, Harry promises to give him a big bone in the afternoon, but Walter completely ignores him. Harry shakes his head, and he and the kids stay in bed for another ten minutes or so. They cuddle and chat a bit, then all get up, brush their teeth and head into the kitchen for breakfast.

Neither Hugo nor Rose want porridge this morning, so Harry gives them chocolate-flavoured cereals with milk and prepares a plate of fresh fruits for them to enjoy. Once they are busy eating, he nips to the bathroom to relieve himself and trim his beard just a bit before he grows entirely out of control, then boils the kettle because he desperately needs a cup of coffee or three.

For a change, he can’t be bothered with the logistics of preparing a sandwich and settles for a bowl of muesli with yoghurt and dried fruit. He eats standing, and when Walter finally joins them, Harry makes sure his crup has a bowl full of his favourite food waiting for him. Walter appears slightly less bad-tempered, and Harry decides to chance it. He crouches down, ruffles Walter behind the ears, and even leans close enough to give him a kiss. Walter’s expression changes completely and softening up, he presses his cold and wet nose against the palm of Harry’s hand and whines quietly.

Harry smiles, pets him some more, and wandlessly summoning the bag of crup treats from the top shelf, he offers one to Walter. Pleased that he’s managed to wrap Walter around his little finger and worm his way back into his crup’s good book, Harry straightens up, finishes his breakfast and settles at the table to enjoy his coffee.

He chats with the kids, and Rose tells him about a dream she had earlier this morning, then asks what he thinks it might mean. Harry ponders for a while, then makes up a fantastic interpretation that has Rose happily grinning from ear to ear. Harry delights in the fact that, despite being the smartest almost-six-year-old he knows, Rose still loves it when he tells her fanciful stories about unicorns, dragons, and centaurs. She knows that those creatures are all real, but usually get caught up in the moment, and Harry hopes she’ll keep that childish innocence of hers for a couple more years.

A tiny part of him is a bit jealous, and every now and then, he has a moment where he can’t help but wonder what if? What if Voldemort hadn’t killed his parents? What would life have been like then? Or even, what if his aunt and uncle hadn’t hated him that much? Harry doesn’t like those depressing thoughts and does his best not to dwell on them. Some days it’s harder than others. But he usually manages to push any reminders of his past away and focuses on the present instead. He’s mostly happy with his life and grateful for the unconditional support of his friends. What he has now, it’s not perfect, but it’s okay, and Harry doesn’t want to taint it with his gloomy past. His past is his past. It doesn’t belong to the present.

***** *** *****

It’s a little after eight o’clock before the kids are completely dressed and ready to come downstairs with him. Walter doesn’t bother, he opts to curl up on the sofa instead, and Harry fervently hopes that neither Rose nor Hugo demand to keep his crup company. There is no way he is going to leave the kids alone in the flat, not even with Walter to watch them.

Thankfully, they seem rather excited about joining him in the shop and as they make their way downstairs―Harry leaves the door to his flat unlocked and ajar in case Walter wants to go―he hands out little tasks. Rose is responsible for turning on the lights, and Hugo wants to adjust the sign at the door that tells customers that Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes is open for business.

Today, Harry is in charge of everything. George isn’t there to help out. He’s left for the mainland, an urgent business trip to source a few missing ingredients for one of his inventions, and won’t be back until sometime tomorrow.

Part of Harry is terrified of having to deal with absolutely everything on his own, but he reminds himself that he’s done it before and will likely be doing it again very soon. It calms his nerves almost instantly.

Over the years, he’s gotten rather good at juggling several responsibilities all at once. It doesn’t happen particularly often that he’s responsible for opening, running, and closing the shop when he’s already busy with the kids. Whenever that happens, Molly usually takes the kids, but today that’s not an option. She’s already got her hands full with some of her younger grandchildren, and there’s no way Harry is going to make her feel even more stressed.

“You can do this.”

He mumbles his new mantra under his breath, then takes a deep breath and looks around the shop.

A smile forms on his face.

Rose has turned the lights on, and Hugo has adjusted the sign.

Harry draws his wand, and pointing it at the door, he unlocks it. It’ll be a while before the first customers arrive, but Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes had an outstanding reputation, and as such it won’t be long before the shop is filled with many new and old customers. Harry decides to take advantage of the quiet before the storm, and with one eye on the kids, he grabs an owl order sheet for The Hideout from the stack he keeps by the till and fills it out, then dispatches an owl.

While he waits for his order―it won’t take more than half an hour for his coffee to arrive―he ensures that the till is ready, then finds something for the kids to do. Hugo has disappeared into the back, and Harry finds him in the play space. He sits curled up against a large green fluffy dragon and his leafing through a picture book. Next to him is a large stack of his favourite books and with a smile, Harry leans against the doorframe and watches Hugo for a few minutes. The boy is entirely engrossed in his book―a Muggle fairy tale―and doesn’t notice anything that’s going on around him.

Harry shakes his head, reminds himself that he can’t stand here all day, and leaves Hugo be. The room is safe. It’s protected by several charms, and nothing in the room poses any danger to either Hugo or Rose. The tiles on the floor are made of thick, food-grade, low-density polyethene foam, and they come with a waterproof polyurethane leather cover that’s easy to clean. The walls are tiled with the same polyethene foam, and any and all corners are charmed with protective spells. It’s the perfect room for kids to go crazy in and Harry isn’t at all worried that Hugo will injure himself if he’s unsupervised for some time.

Turning away from the room, Harry scans the shop’s floor, looking for Rose. He finds her in front of the spacious pygmy puff enclosure, and walking over to her, Harry wordlessly reaches inside the pen and retrieves a small, purple pygmy puff which he hands to Rose.

She squeals with excitement, and she cuddles the miniature Puffskein, gently running her fingers through its furry coat. Her eyes sparkle brightly and ruffling Rose’s hair, Harry crouches down in front of her and places his hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently.

“I’ve a critical job for you today, Rose Weasley,” he says, trying his best to sound all authoritative and important.

Rose reluctantly drags her eyes away from the pygmy puff and looks at him with an expectant expression.

“What job?” she asks.

Harry grins.

“I want you to take very good care of this little fella today. Perhaps you could even think of a name for him.”

Rose’s eyes may have sparkled before, but now they shine brighter than the sun. She nods with enthusiasm.

“I can do that,” she says, her voice full of excitement.

“I’m absolutely confident that you can,” Harry says.

He pulls her and her little pygmy puff into his arms and hugs her carefully.

“Promise me to stay in the shop, yes? You and your friend can play anywhere inside the shop except Uncle George’s workroom. Please don’t go upstairs without me, okay?”

Rose nods.

“Yes, Uncle Harry.”

Harry smiles.

“Good girl. I’ve got a lot of work to do today, but I’ll try and find some time for you and Hugo, I promise.”

Rose grins.

“I’ll be good. Hugo too.”

Harry chuckles.

“I know,” he says.

He presses a kiss to Rose’s forehead, then stands up again and leaves Rose to enjoy a bit of quality time with her new friend. As he walks away, he can hear her chat away to her new friend, and his smile grows. He reaches the till just in time to greet the first customer and after a short talk, he finalises a sale for a couple of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes’ more standard products, and just as the customer leaves, his coffee order arrives.

He offers the familiar delivery owl a few high-quality owl treats, pets her gently, and then indulges in his coffee. He manages to drink about half of it before an avalanche of customers descend upon the shop, and he’s busy until about ten o’clock when he finds a few minutes to run upstairs and prepare a couple of carrot and cucumber sticks for the kids. He also pours them some juice, then returns downstairs, and while they’re enjoying their snacks, Harry tries his best to process as many owl orders as he possibly can.

Come evening and closing time, Harry feels drained and exhausted. His shoulder aches terribly, and every other muscle inside his body protests too. He locks up, checks on the inventory, and uses magic to restock the shelves that need to be refilled. Ordinarily, he prefers to do this would magic, but tonight, he wants to finish up as quickly as possible.

He finishes the books in record time, then heads into the back of the shop. Rose and Hugo are both asleep inside the playroom, and he indecisively stands in the door for a solid five minutes before he finally makes the decision to pick them up and carry them upstairs.

Walter, who has spent half of the day strolling around Diagon Alley by himself, meets them at the door. Loath to wake the kids, Harry settles them on the sofa in the living room, covers them with blankets and heads into the kitchen to prepare a late dinner for them, just in case they wake up hungry. He makes a sandwich for himself, offers Walter a large slice of ham and yawns throughout. For a bit, he’s tempted to make himself another pot of coffee. But since he isn’t especially keen on spending the entire night up, suffering from insomnia, he dismisses that idea and settles for a pint-sized glass of cold water instead.

The kids wake up some ten minutes later and are indeed ravenous, but shortly after brushing their teeth and getting into their pyjamas, they crawl into their beds and are fast asleep within seconds. Harry makes sure to tuck them in, and sits with them for a few minutes, for no other reason than that he finds their company comforting. Walter joins him and curls up on his lap. Harry ruffles him behind the ears and smiles to himself. He yawns a few times but doesn’t manage to find the energy to clamber to his feet.

It is sometime around nine o’clock that he finally forces himself to find one last ounce of energy. Getting up, he leaves the room and ensuring that the nightlight by the door is switched on, he closes the door and heads straight into the bathroom for a long and relaxing shower. Afterwards, dressed in a fresh pair of boxer briefs and his favourite fluffy bathrobe, he settles in front of the television but doesn’t actually bother to switch it on. Instead, he reaches for a book, reads about two pages, then falls asleep right there and then.

* * *

* * *


End file.
